III CHERRY GARDENS (Rotherhithe.)
Reading edition
My man fell in, when he was drunk; They’d thrown him out o’ the “King’s Head.” From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk. He was my man; he’s dead. On the cold slab, a sight to see, They’ve laid him out—poor handsome chap— In Rotherhithe’s new mortuary. His head should dent my lap, But I mayn’t warm him where he lies, Because I have no ring to show; Yet I’ve his bruises on my eyes: And bore his child a month ago.